


The Ties That Bind

by Lady_Therion



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-05
Updated: 2017-11-05
Packaged: 2019-01-29 22:49:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12640893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Therion/pseuds/Lady_Therion
Summary: Cassian likes to play with Nesta’s hair too.





	The Ties That Bind

**Author's Note:**

> A little weekend warm up in the Nessian pool—enjoy.

Nesta loathed having anyone touch her hair. Even as a child, she refused to let others—her mother, her maids, her governesses—brush or braid it. Their touch felt too close, too personal, and she hated how it always made her feel so...exposed.

It was why she preferred to style her own hair, much to Nuala and Cerridwen’s disappointment. Even her own sisters knew not to challenge her on this. She had always been very particular about her grooming and she wouldn’t relinquish her control over it to just anyone.

Her mate, however, was a different story.

She had seen the dreamy way Cassian looked at her when she sat at her vanity; how spellbound he was every time she undid her hair. That the General Commander of the Night Court’s armies could be enthralled by something so common, so ordinary...it made her feel strangely giddy. Girlish even. As though his admiration of her was a sparkling wine she would never stop craving.

He craved her just as much, it seemed.

She didn’t know exactly when Cassian had developed this particular hobby. But she found it suspect that no matter how long his duties claimed him, he would always arrive home _just in time_ to see her let her hair down.

Tonight was no exception.

No sooner had she clasped the handle of her hairbrush than she heard the beat of his wings sweeping over the balcony. This, followed by the sure and steady cadence of his footsteps, sent her heart racing. As did the open-and-shut creak of the double doors that led to their bedroom.

_Gods above, what had he done to her?_

How could she feel such joy, such delight, at something as simple as her lover, her husband, her mate, coming home to her arms?

“Hello, sweetheart.”

His voice is low and rough and teasing and it is all she could do to hide her smile as he approached her from behind. Tucking in his wings, he bent to kiss her temple, her cheek, then linger at the crook of her neck. Her eyes shuttered as the faint stubble on his chin grazed her. With him this close, she could breathe in his heady scent. All earth and woodsmoke and something else that was uniquely and undoubtedly _him_.

 _Mine_ , she thought and sent a tendril of affection through their bond.

_Yours..._

He kissed her again, this time claiming her lips. His teeth and tongue were burning and possessive, as though it had been decades since he’d last seen her, not merely a few hours.

It was just as she liked.

“Mmm. Is this new?”

He plunged his rough and calloused fingers down the V of her light blue nightgown, the lace and satin material a stark contrast against his black leathers.  

“You ruined the last one.”

His answering smirk told her he was not the _least_ bit sorry and that he was looking forward to ruining this one as well.

Not that she would entirely mind it.

After a short exchange of casual words he kissed her again—softly, sweetly—before leaving to run a bath. Some nights, she would join him. Other nights, she would wait for him in their bed.

This time, she decided to play a new game once he finished.

He had just come out of the bath dressed in a soft tunic and loose pants before she sent a firm tug through their bond. Rhys once joked that Nesta liked to keep his general on a tight leash, which she would have rebuffed had Cassian not claimed that he enjoyed being mastered by a strong hand.

It had taken every ounce of willpower not to blush at his admission.

He came to her side at once, brimming with rakish curiosity. She was still sitting at her vanity, her hair still bound—a fact he wouldn’t fail to notice.

“Would you like to help?”

Her mate’s expression barely changed, but the surge of exhilaration she felt through their bond was unmistakable. Suddenly, her mind was sifting with images, as quick and bright as the shuffling of cards. They were memories of days long past—memories from before they were bonded.

His memories.

_Nesta, joining them for dinner at the House of Wind, her hair held back with glittering combs, stunning him into a stupor ..._

_Nesta, settling into his arms as they flew to the library in Velaris, the scent of her hair distracting him so much he was almost angry..._

_Nesta again, bandaging his wrist, a loose curl falling onto her face and oh how his fingers_ **_ached_ ** _to tuck it behind her pointed ear..._

“Stop simpering,” she chided. “It doesn’t become you.”  

His hazel eyes lit up with a wicked gleam. The kind that always sent a thrill through her body, making her tighten her thighs—and the damn brute knew it.

“I’m your mate,” he said. “I have the right to honor and adore you however I wish.”

“Such honeyed words. Do you intend to talk all night?”  

“That depends.” He leaned down to whisper into the shell of her ear, so much more sensitive than when she was mortal. “Would you like me to use my mouth in _other_ ways? I’d be more than willing to oblige...”

She rolled her eyes despite his smoldering promise. She knew very well what his sinful mouth could do. Even so, she would not lose her composure so easily.

“I’m growing bored, my love.”

“So cruel,” he said, his arrogance undiminished. “Where should I start?”

“Here.” She reached up into her hair and took out a pin. “Take these out.”  

“How many are there?”

“That’s for me to know and you to discover,” she said, setting her jaw in a way that brooked no further questioning.

Cassian, as a rule, never liked to simply _do_ what she told him to—even when it was clear that it would be to his advantage. No, her mate enjoyed provoking her. He still did, even after all this time. Anything to stir a reaction, to set her blood on fire, to goad her into a verbal (or physical) sparring match which neither of them would win, but both would emerge as the victor.

Especially when most of their arguments ended in earth-shattering bliss.

But how antagonizing it all was; that little dance of theirs. How exhausting! But over time she began to realize that the real reason why her beloved general could be so _infuriating_ was because he was terrified. Perhaps even more terrified than she was when it came to acknowledging the feelings between them—their vastness and intensity. Terrified that if he didn’t fight for what he wanted, then he would lose everything. That if he didn’t bait and bicker with her, then she would leave.

How far they had come since then.

Little by little, they had both conquered that fear. Diminishing it with concessions and compromises, with acts of trust and moments of truth. Moments like this—where she laid aside her walls for him and him alone.

Did he know how much that meant? To have him see her the way she truly was? Surely, he knew. Surely, she didn’t have to _say_ it out loud…

Did she?

“You’re so quiet,” he said.

His deft fingers were gentle as they probed for pins, handing her each one as he found them. She placed the pins into a little porcelain bowl—something Feyre had painted for her long ago, in that little house at the edge of the woods. When all she knew was hate and anger and resentment.

“I’m just happy,” she said, deciding it was true.

Cassian returned her small smile with one of his own before moving onto her braid, his scarred brow furrowing as he surveyed the task before him as seriously as any battlefield. Though she hardly expected anything less from the male who watched her do this every night since they began sharing a bed. He unwound the long coil from her crown, careful not to tug or pull. Then held each strand as though they were spun gold before separating them with his fingers.

She did not fail to hear the way his breath caught as her tresses tumbled down her back.

There were times, like now, where he would pause to look at her as if he had never seen her before; his face a potent mixture of awe and utter devotion. Nesta was not coy or modest. Men had always found her beautiful. But Cassian made her feel _more_ than beautiful.

He made her feel cherished.

Nesta hummed as he took her ran her hairbrush in deep, long, and thorough strokes. Her skin flushed as a tingle bloomed from the back of her neck, then raced down her spine, and from there spread to other unexpected places. And he was only brushing her hair! No wonder he enjoyed it so much when she combed and played with his.

“Sometimes, I don’t think I deserve this,” he said, softly.

“Don’t think you deserve...what?” she said.

He set aside her brush and replaced it once again with his fingers, smoothing down her golden-brown layers before tucking a lock behind her ear.

“You,” he said, finally. “This. Life.”

She reached up to grab the hand that settled on her shoulder, turning to look into his eyes. Though they still smoldered with passion, there was an undercurrent of melancholy there. A remnant of pain left over from when he was cast out as a child, unwanted and alone. A child that did not think he was entitled to anything, not even love. It was a wound that had never fully healed no matter how many centuries had passed or how many victories he had won. The root of it so deep and unending that it made her ache inside.

And that would simply not do.

She took her hand in hers, then brushed the back of his knuckles with her lips—still red and bruised from the day’s training. Then she kissed them in earnest as if doing so would soothe all of his hurts, inside and out. She glanced at him from beneath her lashes as she trailed more kisses along his wrist, pausing to suck gently at his pulse, which grew more frantic at her ministrations.

“I thought that once too,” she admitted. “That I didn’t deserve you, or this, or life.” She stopped his ensuing protest with another kiss, this time on the band of his mating ring, its onyx gem matching the one on her own. “But I think...I think you and I were inevitable, Cassian.” As inevitable as a wildfire after a bolt of lightning struck a dry field. “And I think that it’s time we both set aside who deserves what...we found each other. Against all odds, we found each other. ” She caught his fevered gaze, almost pleading with him. “You made me want to stay, Cassian. You made me want _to live_.”

From the way he swallowed, it seemed her mate felt the same.

Then he swept her in his arms as though a spark ignited between them. And perhaps it had. Cassian’s passion was contagious and all-consuming. She surrendered to it every time, just as he surrendered to hers. Every kiss was searing, scorching, scalding...making her body sing for more, more, _more._

Yet it would never be enough. Not even if they lived for another several thousand years.

He growled low and deep when she bared her throat to him, the gesture undoing him in the most primal of ways. She knew by the glaze in his eyes, the shift in his scent, that he would love nothing more than to dominate and be dominated. Fortunately, Nesta could understand what it meant to want to chase a storm and then stand in the eye of it. And while they had always been of equal footing in bed, the self-doubt that lingered in Cassian’s eyes had convinced Nesta to yield—and yield to him completely.

So she submitted, baring her her soul to him through their bond like an opponent tossing aside their shield. One by one, her walls came down, until she revealed what lay within—the well of her love for him. Golden and infinite and everlasting.

Pupils blown and nostrils flared, her mate did not misread her gesture.

 _Mine, mine,_ **_mine_ ** _…_

Soon their bond became a fierce ballad of want and desperation. Beginning as a whisper and then building towards a crescendo. Their feral harmony was so complete that Nesta did not know which one of them wanted the other more. Not even as Cassian sank his canines into her neck. Hard enough to bruise, to mark, to _claim._ Nesta moaned aloud, the soaked heat between her legs yearning for the steel hardness between his.

He trembled—her loyal and fearsome general—actually _trembled_ when she plunged her fingers into his night-dark hair, clinging to him as he drove his hips into her. Though the layers between them were few, it might as well have been walls of iron.

The bond roared for skin on skin, flesh on flesh.... _closer, closer..._ they had to be much _closer_.  

“Turn around,” he said. “Turn around and face the mirror.”

She spun in his arms, kicking away her stool as she gripped the edge of her vanity.

Together, they watched their reflections in a haze of lust so palpable that a dagger could have sliced right through it. It was akin to a frenzy. And though they were not newly mated, it was shocking—absolutely, _shocking—_ how much they still desired one another this way.

No, not just desired.

_Needed._

They were as vital to one another as their next breath, their next heartbeat.

So when Cassian indeed ripped the straps of her night gown so that it fell at her hips, she watched him. Watched him with hooded eyes as he reached up to cup her breast, rolling a nipple between his fingers as it peaked into a hard bud of arousal.

She hissed with pleasure as his other hand felt her slickness. She was wet, practically drenched, and embarrassingly so. But her shame faded the instant his fingers sank into her, opening her, massaging her, curling into her so deliciously that she keened.

“Keep your eyes open, Nesta,” he said, sucking on the pulse on her throat. “I want you to see what you do to me. I want you to see how pretty you are when you come.”  

Things had begun to clatter onto the floor: her hair brush, bottles of kohl and rouge, and then somehow, Cassian’s clothing. But Nesta could barely pay attention as Cassian lifted the hem of her gown, kissing and nipping at her collarbone before he slipped inside. And despite his command to keep her eyes open, she could not help fluttering them once—twice—as the hot and hard length of him filled her.

“Cassian... _Cassian_ …”

“Yes, yes. Like that, like that,” he crooned, his pace relentless.

Nesta had never considered herself a voyeur. But watching them together in the mirror, locked in the most intimate ways, stirred her in ways that she could not even imagine. The carnality of it was so distracting that she almost didn’t notice when Cassian pulled her hair to one side of her neck, plunging his hands into it before grasping the ends as though they were reins. The unbidden thought of being bridled by him in such a way would haunt her dreams for weeks.  

“Are you there, sweetheart? Are you close?”

He knew that she was, she just couldn’t give voice to it. It was impossible, she thought. Impossible to feel such swells of pleasure and not simply die from it.

And there it was...that glorious and radiant peak. Together they raced towards it, tumbling over the edge, moaning together as they came, watching each other as they did so.

“So good,” he gasped against her throat. “So, so good. _Look at you_ …”

She could and yet she couldn’t. Nesta hardly recognized herself, or him, as they rode out the waves of such indescribable ecstasy. Eventually, they ebbed and abated. The bond between them collapsing and reforming in relief. A firestorm that reached its fevered pinnacle before quelling itself to a pile of embers.

Cassian could always be so smug after such blinding intimacy. And she, haughty. But for now they were content to submerge themselves in the moment’s sweet contentment. The both of them liquid and sated and so, so loved.

“What are you thinking about?” she asked, when she caught him looking at her again. Not as though he wanted to devour her, but rather throw himself at her feet.

He kissed a freckle on her exposed shoulder. Then another, then another.

“I’m thinking...that I should brush your hair more often.”

She grinned as he gathered her close, scooping her up in his arms as they made the short distance to their bed.

“Maybe if you’re good,” she said as he laid her down,  “I’ll even let you braid it.”


End file.
